


Forged Anew

by itzteegan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Branson Rutherford is the Inquisitor, F/M, Family, Non-Canon Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Personal Growth, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22025764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itzteegan/pseuds/itzteegan
Summary: I covered my face, fearful,But the Lady took my hands from my eyes,Saying, "Remember the fire. You must passThrough it alone to be forged anew.Look! Look upon the Light so youMay lead others here through the darkness,Blade of the Faith!"~ Canticle of ExaltationsBranson Rutherford attended the Conclave with the intention of making contact with his brother, Cullen, and instead ended up becoming the Herald of Andraste
Relationships: Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just as a note, this whole story won't be told from Cassandra's POV, I'll likely be switching every so often, but each chapter will only have one POV and I just so happen to be starting with Cassandra.

Cassandra stormed into the Chantry, scouts and lower-level soldiers skittering out of her way like mice upon sighting a cat. Her face was schooled into a steeled expression despite the turmoil broiling underneath the surface. She barely spared a glance at Leliana when the Left Hand joined her at her side, but from the guarded posture to the silent presence, she knew that Leliana was actually the far more dangerous one of the two. But, she also had the most level head of them, so she trusted her, wanted her at her side. Especially now, in this moment, when the anger had her lusting for blood, for vengeance, for someone to pay for what had been done. The conclave, Divine Justinia’s last ditch effort to sit down Templars and Mages alike and broker peace, completely undone. And worse yet, they had no idea what exactly had happened and why, and beyond dealing with the ripples left in the wake of the Divine’s death, there was the newly formed rift in the sky that was constantly expanding and sending demons from its midst. The apostate that had approached them seemed hopeful that the prisoner they’d found at the Temple, the only survivor, was the key to closing it.

But that would only happen if Cassandra could stop herself from ringing his bloody neck first.

An Elven servant had nervously notified her that he had awoken and had been transferred from his cell to an interrogation room in anticipation of the Seeker’s want for questioning him. And with that, Cassandra had immediately made her way up to the Chantry, trying her damnedest to organise her thoughts before she step foot in the room, but the moment she did, everything seemed to flee from her mind. She clenched her fist and set her jaw, breathing long and slow to try to head off any impulsiveness. At least, as much as possible. You are too brash, Cassandra, too eagre to rush in when you should pause and ask questions. Like a bull in a shop of china, you know only one direction: forward. She shook her head to clear her mind of the admonitions of her instructors before she stepped forward, eyes sweeping over the prisoner kneeling on the floor. Shackles held his hands secure, his left one glowing and crackling with the strange mark that the apostate had stabilised. He’d given no further insights into what it was and why it was there, only saying that it wouldn’t be dangerous to them before he let him be and left with Varric to head into the valley, saying he would keep trying to find a way to seal rifts himself. Considering that neither had yet returned, she assumed their venture to be fruitless, which only meant she had to get answers herself.

Suited her just fine, really.

With a snarl she couldn’t help lacing her voice, she demanded, “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now. The Conclave is destroyed, everyone who attended is dead. Except for you.”

His eyes widened at her words as he asked in return, “What do you mean everyone’s dead?”

Cassandra scowled. She was the one asking questions, this prisoner didn’t get to demand anything. Grabbing his left wrist, the one that still crackled and popped with strange green energy, she rerouted with, “Explain this.”

Brows furrowed in confusion as he stuttered, “I can’t.”

If the Seeker audibly growled, no one said anything about it. “What do you mean you can’t?” she spat back at him.

Still, he denied any knowledge of the mark on his hand. “I don’t know what that is or how it got there.”

Cassandra was fast reaching the limits of her patience. The Divine was dead, half the valley was in ruin, and this prisoner still refused to talk or even put up any kind of a front. The Insolence! “You’re lying!” she accused.

Leliana spoke up by her side. “We need him, Cassandra,” she reminded, recalling what the strange apostate had told them before he’d disappeared into the valley. The Seeker, however, was becoming far too frustrated to even try to get more answers out of him, and so she turned, allowing Leliana a chance to question him if she wished.

Softly behind her, she heard him mutter, “I can’t believe it … all those people … dead? It … It can’t be …”

Leliana spoke next, her voice far more gentle than Cassandra’s had been, attempting to ply him with grace where Cassandra’s aggressiveness had born nothing. “Do you remember what happened? How all this began?”

It at least seemed to get somewhere as he paused a moment, giving it a little thought before he replied, “I remember running. These things were chasing me. And then, a woman …”

Well, it was far more than Cassandra had managed to get out of him, she had to give Leliana that. “A woman?” she prompted encouragingly.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “She reached out to me, and then …”

“What?” Leliana prompted again.

He sighed and then admitted, “I don’t remember.”

Maker damn him, Cassandra couldn’t help her outburst as she turned around. “You continue this insolence?” she threw at him, less of a question and more of a dare for him to answer.

His eyes widened once more and he held up his hands palm up in surrender, as if to physically show he was hiding nothing. “I swear, I don’t remember! If I did, I would tell you. If the Conclave is destroyed, then …” he swallowed as he admitted, “… then my brother likely perished as well, and my journey here was all for naught.”

Cassandra wanted still to be angry, to curse at him and shake him until he gave them something more to go on, but Leliana set a hand on her shoulder, grounding her, and the Seeker took a deep breath to steady herself. This line of questioning was getting nowhere, and they didn’t have time for this. They needed answers, real ones, and so she scaled back and started with a simple one, one she truly didn’t even care to know but she asked anyway, needing to start with something. “What is your name?”

“… Rutherford.”

Cassandra immediately paused, everything in her body stilling for a moment at the name. She hadn’t even heard his first name, truth be told, had only asked him out of routine and not out of a desire to know. But that last name caught her by surprise. Her eyes narrowed as she asked carefully, slowly, “Do you know a Cullen Rutherford?”

Sharp eyes glanced up at her. “Of course I know Cullen, he’s my brother. Our sister sent me here to find him. Though …” he trailed off, eyes seeking the floor, his posture slumping ever so slightly.

It felt like all breath left the Seeker’s body in one blow. There wasn’t hardly anything that could shake her, that could immediately derail her and her intentions. Of this, Varric knew quite well. But this news, the very idea that Cullen’s brother had been at the Conclave, had somehow gotten himself involved in the explosion that had nearly levelled the whole place and had killed the Divine, who had gotten some sort of magical mark on his hand that not even a strange apostate could figure out …

There was really only one reaction to have at something like that. _Well, shit._

Why she hadn’t made the connection before now, she wasn’t sure. Later, Cassandra would posit that she just hadn’t expected such a familial connection to this person, this unknown that she had initially viewed only as a threat and nothing else. While Branson was younger than the former Knight-Commander, there was a certain set to his jaw and fire in his eyes that clearly reflected his older brother. Cassandra clenched and unclenched her hand, taking deep breaths as she tried to figure out how to proceed now that she was almost certain he couldn’t be the threat she’d initially thought him to be.

Because surely there wasn’t a way that Branson Rutherford had truly been in league with whoever had blown up the Conclave and killed the Divine, the impression from Cullen had given her that much. Though she hadn’t known the Commander very long, she had become intimately familiar with his family. The early stages of lyrium withdrawal had not suited the former Templar well, especially not on the voyage between Kirkwall and Jader. She had sympathised with him, respecting his decision to discontinue the lyrium, and as such she’d done what she could to at least distract him from the pain and the nausea, if she couldn’t relieve it herself. And once she’d gotten him to start talking about his family, he couldn’t stop, almost akin to a stream of consciousness as he told her about his siblings, about Mia and Branson and Rosalie. Little stories about their mischief and adventures growing up, mostly. About how Mia was bossy and overbearing at times, but how she truly cared about them all. How Rosalie had been born early and was exceptionally small and how everyone had worried about her night and day, protective of her even as she grew up strong and spirited. He spoke extensively about Branson, about how close they were as brothers, about how he’d supported his aspiration to become a Templar. Bran had never wanted that, had wanted a simpler life, and while he had taught him what he knew about fighting – since that was a skill useful to anyone – Branson never pursued it with the same passion as Cullen. Still, the Commander had never referred to any of his siblings with anything less than reverence and respect, and it was that glowing report that had her take pause despite the feeling of imbalance as the earlier rage and aggression coalesced in her stomach as a cold dread.

Even chained, the younger Rutherford sat there on his haunches patiently, eyes flicking between Cassandra and Leliana. There was a certain patience and grace about him that was so familiar to her now, Cassandra marvelled at how she hadn't recognised it before. Physically, they weren't exact copies of each other. Branson's hair was a little darker, a little longer than his elder brother's, and he seemed a bit shorter and more squat compared to Cullen's longer, leaner frame. But they carried that same, set jawline and piercing eyes that clearly spoke to their shared blood. And, Cassandra suspected, there would be the same honour underneath the surface. She hoped, at least, as she told the Left Hand, “Go to the forward camp, Leliana, I will take him to the rift.”

Sister Nightingale accepted the direction readily, turning heel and immediately ascending the steps that lead out of the dungeon. Cassandra bent to unlock his shackles, tying ropes around his wrist instead. Truly, that was mostly for the people of Haven, so that they could see that he was still in her possession, and he didn’t seem to protest or question her actions as he instead asked, “What did happen?

Cassandra paused a moment as she confirmed the knot was secure. His question was far more loaded than he realised and she suddenly felt fatigued at trying to explain. Instead, she helped him to his feet and replied, “It will be easier to show you.”

Branson followed her unquestioningly up and out of the Chantry, almost stumbling as he walked out the door, squinting and holding up his arm to cover his face as he blinked, eyes adjusting from the darkness of the dungeon. Besides the sun still burning in the sky, the Breach added a light all its own, even at night, throwing a sharp contrast onto the world beneath it. It was certainly brighter than the dull candlelight afforded beneath the Chantry, and she allowed him a moment for his eyes to adjust. They finally did, and he looked around and then up, gaping at the swirling tear in the Veil, the one that seemed to correspond to the strange mark on his hand. “We call it the Breach,” she explained as he stared, “it is a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the conclave

He seemed utterly puzzled, a quizzical look furrowing his brow. “An explosion can do that?”

Cassandra nodded. “This one did. Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.” Anything else she might have said was immediately cut short as the Breach above them cracked open further, the mark on his hand doing the same, making him cry out and fall to his knees. Clutching his hand to his chest in pain, he breathed deeply, hissing as he endured it. It was the first time he was conscious for it, and she marvelled that it hadn’t somehow woken him before if this was how it felt. Concerned, she dropped to a knee in front of him, her voice just a tad more soft as she explained, “Each time the breach expands, your mark spreads. And it is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.”

As the pulse finally passed, he took a deep breath, fixing her with a determined expression as he told her, “I understand.”

There it was, that Rutherford determination shining through. “Then …?”

“I’ll do all I can to help. Whatever it takes.”

She just barely suppressed the smirk as she commented, “I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised, coming from Cullen’s brother.”

Helping him to his feet, she led him through Haven, shielding him from stares, tossed insults, and even a few hurled vegetables that angry citizens lobbed at his head. A well-placed glare here and there from the Seeker was all that was required to get the people to back away and let them pass with minimal harassment. It was something she had practised over the years and had come in handy when a blade was too heavy handed for the situation. Leliana had her whispers and her ravens and the graceful game she played, and Cassandra was the heavy fist that led the charge. Both were useful, both were needed. And when it came to escorting this particular prisoner to the front gates of Haven, Cassandra’s intimidating presence was needed far more than Leliana’s more subtle touch, considering they didn’t have the time for him to be smuggled out a back way like Sister Nightingale would have done. The poor lad seemed utterly flummoxed at the level of hatred thrown his way, and the Seeker felt the need to try to explain. “They have decided your guilt. They need it. The people of Haven mourn our most holy, Divine Justinia. We lash out like the sky but we must think beyond ourselves, as she did, until the Breach is sealed.” Cassandra continued to utilise the patented unapproachable aura she projected as she pulled him through the first set of gates and then turned to him, pulling a dagger out from her waistband as she told him, “Come, it is not far.”

He eyed the blade, flinching ever so slightly as she produced it, likely wondering if she was going to use it on him. When she instead used it to cut his bonds, he looked noticeably relieved as he rubbed at his wrists, returning his circulation back to normal. He took one last look at the Breach above them before his eyes fell back to the road ahead of them. “Where are you taking me?” he asked.

Cassandra spared one more glance up at the unnerving green maw that was pouring demons into Thedas before she looked Branson in the eye. “Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the Breach.” Silently, she added, more in prayer than anything else, _Maker, please let this work._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating. I have no excuse, I've just been lazy.
> 
> Just one more chapter in Cassandra's POV for now and then we switch. :)

To his credit, though the task laid before him seemed daunting, he didn’t shy away from it. Instead, he drew a deep breath before he strode confidently toward the second set of gates that opened up to the path that wound through the valley, eventually leading to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

Or, rather, where the Temple had stood before the explosion, that is.

The guards looked leery at the prisoner walking freely, but they didn’t question the Seeker as she shouted at them, “Open the gates! We are heading into the valley.” Any hesitancy that they might have had vanished at the sight of Cassandra Pentaghast and the confidence and surety she projected … even though she felt little assurance about the situation as a whole. Still, the least she could do for her soldiers was continue to act as if she was in complete control, even if she wasn’t. Leliana would do the same, as would Cullen if, Maker willing, he was still alive. He had been, last she’d heard, but things seemed to change so quickly she did not want to count on it if she could not see it with her own eyes. That was why, when Branson mentioned his brother, assumed he was dead, she did not move to correct him. She did not want to give him hope only for that hope to be dashed the closer they got to the Breach. For now, they had to concentrate on the task at hand, and that was moving him through the valley.

They hadn’t taken but perhaps a dozen strides out of the gates when the mark on Branson’s hand flared once more, and he dropped to his knees in the snow, groaning and shuddering in pain. She felt for him as she knelt beside him, helping him to his feet. By his admission, Branson had come to the Conclave only to seek out his brother, and by some unfortunate turn of events he was now smack dab in the middle of this … this _mess._ Standing him upright, she patted him on his shoulder in what she hoped was a comforting gesture as she told him, “The pulses are coming faster now.” Moving ahead, she further explained, “The larger the Breach grows, the more rifts appear, and the more demons we face.”

He accepted what she said with a grunt, attempting to mask any pain he was feeling as he kept pace just behind her. “How did I survive such a blast?”

For this, Cassandra had not been present, and she almost wished she had because what the soldiers had described seemed fantastical. “They said you … stepped out of a rift. Then fell unconscious.” She debated for a moment whether to add what else they had seen before she did tell him, “They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.” Sighing, she continued, “Everything farther in the valley was laid waste, including the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I suppose you’ll see soon enough.”

Shimmering pockets of demons continued to pour from the sky above them, and Cassandra did her best to keep an eye on them lest some of them come close to where they were. So far, it seemed the Breach was content to simply belch them onto the land closest to where it hung in the sky, but as they both moved to cross a bridge, it seemed the tear in the Veil was simply not content to keep the demons close to it as a blast hit the stone bridge, making it shudder underneath their feet in a way that stone just was not meant to do. Their attempt to keep their footing steady and back away was a failure, and both Cassandra and Branson went tumbling down the now ruined bridge.

Thankfully it was been constructed only to allow ease of passage above a now-frozen stream, so they didn’t fall far and it didn’t take the experienced Seeker but a few moments to regain her composure. Branson was on his feet just a second after she was, but as they stood they saw that they were no longer alone. Frowning, Cassandra barked at him, “Stay behind me!” as she drew her sword and rushed the demon that had appeared, sending a war cry in its direction. She actively repressed a shudder as it hissed at her, swiping its dripping claws toward her face. She deftly brought up her shield and blocked it, using the momentary distraction to lunge forward with her sword and bury it in the demon’s chest. It howled in agony as it slumped to the ground, now nothing but a lump of rags.

Sheathing her sword, she turned to see Branson drawing an arrow and letting it loose, its target found in the demon’s face. How he’d procured a bow and arrow, she didn’t know, and she drew her sword once more as she approached him, instincts driving her. “Drop your weapon now!”

He looked startled at her harsh demand, her demeanor now closest to when they’d initially met in the dungeons of the Chantry, a sharp contrast to how she’d been ever since she’d found out who he was. Nevertheless, he nodded and held out his bow as he conceded, “Alright, have it your way.”

She frowned further. What was she thinking? A demon had tried to attack him, he had only defended himself. Thus far he’d shown no hostility toward her whatsoever, and considering that this was likely only a taste of what they’d get in the valley and who knew how many demons they might potentially meet on the way to scooping up more companions … Cassandra knew she was in the wrong on this issue, and as such she moved to correct herself. “Wait,” she said, putting her sword away. “I cannot protect you, and I cannot expect you to be defenceless.” Branson nodded in acceptance, turning to the broken container behind him and retrieving some more arrows. As he did so, Cassandra reached into the pouch she kept on her person, pulling out some glass vials that she handed over to him. “Here, take these potions. Maker knows what we will face.”

He took them gladly, dropping them in a pouch attached to the quiver before he mounted it on his back. Now that they were both properly outfitted, they began to make their way further into the valley, seeking out allies to help them make the rest of the journey to the ruins of the Temple. It would be impossible for only the two of them to make it the rest of the way, and Cassandra hoped to stumble upon Varric and the apostate before making it to the forward camp. If she had to, she would simply grab some soldiers there, but she preferred to work with the skills she knew rather than the skills she didn’t. Many of the Chantry soldiers left were wholly new recruits, experienced perhaps in animal butchering or farming or hunting, but little else. Varric was famed for his marksmanship and likewise the apostate, Solas, seemed of considerable skill, if he’d been able to halt the progression of the mark on Branson.

As it was, her decision to allow Branson to keep the bow and arrows was fortuitous, as they stumbled upon more demons the further into the valley they ventured. Though his skills were minimal, he was still quite competent as he wounded and crippled demons from afar, in some cases killing them outright before Cassandra even had a chance to get near them. They worked well together, Branson sneaking along and sniping demons before they had a chance to realise they were there and Cassandra charging in once they were alerted to their presence. She figured he might have a thing or two to even teach some of their own scouts, though his weaknesses quickly became apparent. When it came to close quarters combat, he was not very good at all, panicking as he tried to aim and steady his bow as a particular demon closed in on him, getting in a swipe before Cassandra could land a killing blow. The wound wasn’t deep, but it festered, and if they hadn’t had potions with them, it would have easily become infected. He grimaced as he downed the elfroot concoction, the taste none too pleasant, but the effects needed.

“Where are all your soldiers?” he asked as she helped him to his feet yet again. This seemed to be fast becoming a habit for them.

“At the forward camp, or fighting. We are on our own for now.” It was not an encouraging prospect, but they pushed ahead regardless, fighting off demons and wraiths that cropped up more and more. As they ascended a set of stairs, Cassandra felt the unique vibrations of a rift emanating from above. Though she wasn’t a Templar, many of her abilities were similar, and so she felt the odd magic even though she wasn’t a mage herself. If she was a betting woman, she would have put money on Varric and Solas being just ahead, if the pull of the Fade and the sounds of fighting ahead weren’t enough. Even if it was just a band of soldiers, undoubtedly they would need their help, and so she called out to Branson, “We’re getting close to a rift. You can hear the fighting.”

“Who’s fighting?”

“We’ll see soon. We must help them,” she declared resolutely, drawing her sword and hefting her shield as they finally crested the top of the hill. Sure enough, there was a small rift there, a mirror of the large one that encompassed the Breach, and at its feet was a swarm of demons threatening to overtake the two that were fighting them. With a cry, Cassandra entered the fray, Branson’s arrows singing past her as she trusted him to aim true and not hit her. As she had suspected and subconsciously prayed for, it was indeed Varric and Solas there, and they seemed relieved to see her charge into fray. With them all working in tandem, it didn’t take long for them to take care of the remaining demons, and as Cassandra felled the last one standing in the way, Solas approached Branson.

Cassandra remained wary, but he only grabbed the younger Rutherford’s hand as he entreated him with, “Quickly, before more come through!” And with that, he held up Branson’s hand with his, pointing it toward the rift, guiding him through motions Cassandra couldn’t even begin to comprehend. She wondered if Solas truly knew what he was doing, or if he was simply experimenting as he so claimed to be doing from the start. She had no outright reason to disbelieve him, but she also had no true reason to fully trust him yet, and so she stood by, wary and waiting, to see what would happen.

And, to her surprise, it worked. Whatever the apostate had led Branson to do, it had sealed the rift in front of them, negating any gateway into the world of the living that the demons might once have had. Branson seemed just as surprised as the rest of him, glancing between the mark on his hand and the mage as he asked, “What did you do?”

Solas simply clasped his hands behind his back as he told him, “I did nothing. The credit is yours.”

Branson still seemed incredulous about this turn of events – and truly, Cassandra couldn’t blame him – and he seemed to marvel now at the mark as he murmured, “I closed that thing? How?”

Solas seemed more than eagre to explain his logic and reasoning. “Whatever magic opened the breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorised the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach's wake … and it seems I was correct.”

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” Cassandra mused aloud.

“Possibly,” Solas conceded, turning back to Branson as he said, “it seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

The one person that Cassandra had been studiously ignoring from the start finally deigned it necessary to chime in. And, of course, he had to make it crass. “Good to know, here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” The Dwarf wore an insufferable grin as he approached them, introducing himself with, “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.” He had the gall to wink at her, and Cassandra scowled at him, though by now she didn’t think that did any good to convince him to stay in line like it did others under her command. In fact, if she didn’t know better, she would have thought he liked it. That only caused her scowl to deepen.

Branson, however, did not share her reservations about the rogue. Instead, he openly admired his weapon as he remarked, “That’s a nice crossbow you have there.”

Varric beamed at the question, casting a loving glance backward to where Bianca rested against him. “Isn’t she? Bianca and I have been through a lot.”

Branson opened his mouth for a moment, then closed it, like he was going to say something and then though better of it. Instead, he shook his head and stated, “So, I closed the rift. What now?”

That was something Cassandra could answer. “Now we go meet Leliana.”

Varric looked downright excited. “What a great idea!” he exclaimed, and Cassandra wasn’t sure if he was being serious or sarcastic. Knowing him, likely both.

She put her foot down then and there. “Absolutely not. Your help is appreciated, Varric, but …”

“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker?” he interrupted. “Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.”

Cassandra took a deep breath to keep her composure so she wouldn’t stab the damn Dwarf, managing to walk away with only letting out a disgusted noise to let her displeasure known. He was right. She knew it, he knew it, they all knew it. But she just didn’t want to admit it.

Behind her, she could hear the apostate approach Branson. “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”

Varric of course couldn’t help but butt in, “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept’.”

Branson seemed at least moderately impressed as he remarked, “Then I owe you my thanks.”

“You can thank me later, should we be successful.” Solas turned to the Seeker as he said, “Cassandra, you should know: the magic involved here is unlike any I have seen. Your prisoner is no mage … indeed, I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.”

She frowned slightly as she received his report. She still wasn’t quite sure what to think of him, but he seemed eagre enough to help, and that was what they needed. While she didn’t know his credentials to mark him as an expert to be beholden to, she didn’t quite think there really was a true expert in something like this. They were all taking a stab in the dark, trying things just to see if they would work and then trying something else if it didn’t. He seemed at least competent enough to ensure Branson had lived and he had also correctly posited that the mark would close the rifts. For Cassandra, this was good enough for her, and she nodded. “Understood. We must get to the forward camp, quickly.”

As they prepared to leave, she could hear Varric remark, “Well … Bianca’s excited.”

It took everything in Cassandra to not roll her eyes and groan.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally get to hop into Branson's head!

The ragtag group managed to make it to the forward camp no worse for the wear, though they had one more rift to seal in front of the gates. Branson’s hand was still tingling, and he shook it lightly as they entered through the gate and made their way into the camp proper. He’d downed a couple of potions already and they sat odd on his stomach, but he shook it off and grabbed a couple more from an open box before they made to approach the table Leliana was standing at. She wasn’t alone, however, as beside her stood a Chancellor. What a Chantry man was doing here, Bran wasn’t sure, but it seemed he was in a deep argument with the Left Hand. Branson almost wanted to shrink back and wait, Leliana’s firm but unmovable demeanor reminding him much of his own sister, Mia. But Cassandra and the rest of their party was already moving ahead, and so he sighed and joined them, giving his hand a little shake to try to get rid of the odd tingling sensation shooting through his limb.

“Ah, here they come,” the Chancellor noted as they approached the table.

Leliana stepped from around the table, a brief look of relief washing over her face. “You made it. Chancellor Roderick, this is …”

“I know who he is,” he interrupted, looking quite smug as he continued, declaring, “as Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.”

The blood felt like it drained from Branson’s face. _No!_ In that moment, facing the facts plainly that he was wanted dead, he could think only of the son he’d left in his sister’s care, of the brother he’d been sent to find. Of course, after hearing what he had from Cassandra, he doubted Cullen still lived, even, and he clenched his hand into a fist to distract him from the turmoil of emotions rumbling through him. Now was not the time for grief. Later, perhaps, after he closed this Breach, he could mourn his brother properly and compose a letter for their sister. Until then, he needed to try to remain calm, even in the face of the sneering Chancellor.

Cassandra seemed none too impressed by his declaration. “Order me? You are a glorified clerk, a bureaucrat!”

“And you are a thug,” he countered, folding his arms across his chest. “But a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry.”

Leliana was the one who shot back at him. “We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor, as you well know.”

He huffed as he replied, obviously exasperated, “Justinia is dead! We must elect a replacement and obey her orders on the matter!”

Branson wondered just how long that sort of thing would take. He hadn’t been paying much attention when the last Divine, Beatrix, had passed, being too young to care of such matters. Still, he didn’t imagine the Divine Election was a process that was very swift at all. Did the Chancellor truly want to take him to Val Royeaux only to throw him in a jail cell for months on end until it was done? And what of the Breach until then? Would Thedas even last all those months until a new Divine was declared and made her will known? To wit, this whole time he’d been assuming Cassandra and Leliana were in charge, considering it seemed they were the ones ordering him held in the Chantry in Haven. But if that was true, this Chancellor wouldn’t be so openly and brazenly challenging their authority. He truly wondered, and as a result he could not help but interject, “So nobody is actually in charge here?”

Chancellor Roderick fixed him with a stern gaze. “You killed everyone in charge!” Branson internally cringed, wishing he’d never even spoken up to begin with. As he fell silent, the Chancellor addressed Cassandra once more. “Call a retreat, Seeker. Our position here is hopeless.”

“We can stop this before it’s too late,” she insisted, strong as ever.

“How?” he questioned. “You won’t survive long enough to reach the Temple, even with all your soldiers.”

“We must get to the Temple,” she insisted, pointing to a path just outside of the camp. “It’s the quickest route.”

“But not the safest. Our forces can charge as a distraction while we go through the mountains,” Leliana replied with a nod of her head to indicate the alternate path.

Cassandra didn’t look too happy with that particular plan. “We lost contact with an entire squad on that path, it is too risky.”

“Listen to me,” Roderick pleaded, “abandon this now before more lives are lost!”

Branson hissed in a breath as the Breach stretched and widened once more, belching more demonic droppings onto the world beneath it. As a mirror to its actions, the mark on his hand trembled and vibrated, feeling like it was slowly ripping open his hand from the inside. He worked to breath in and out, slowly and evenly, riding out the wave of pain in silence. Shouting and grimacing would do him no good anyway, and Bran had never been one for dramatics. The only reason he had fallen to his knees before was because he’d been caught off guard, but now that he well knew the pain of the mark, he was … Maker preserve him, he was getting used to it.

The Seeker sighed, steeling him a certain curious look as she asked, “How do you think we should proceed?”

He blinked at her for a moment, unsure if he’d truly understood her. A Seeker, the Right Hand of the Divine, asking him, a lowly hunter from Honnleath, what his opinion was? Surely he had either misheard or misunderstood her, and he moved to clarify. “You’re asking me?”

And incredibly, she nodded. “It is your mark that guides us now. I do not know why the Maker has seen fit to send you of all people, but I will listen.”

Nodding, he considered the options before him. Charging with the soldiers through the front of the Temple did seem awfully risky, on that he and the Chancellor were agreed. However, there was the unknown that they would face if they were to take the mountain path. Glancing between the two paths, his eyes fixed on the mountain, and he knew then which he would choose. After all, if there was a lost squad up there, he felt the need to at least try to find out what happened to them, save them if possible. He wasn’t a soldier like Cullen, but they both shared a similar care for the safety of innocents, as they had since they were children. His heart still clenched at the thought of his brother, but he brushed it aside as he declared, “Use the mountain path. Work together. You all know what’s at stake.”

As they went to leave, Chancellor Roderick couldn’t resist one last parting barb. “On your head be the consequences, Seeker,” he said, the title seeming more like a slur with the way he said it. Cassandra seemed unaffected as she strode forward, giving Branson the confidence to follow her out of the camp.

Of course, climbing up a mountain path is never the easiest prospect, and logically Branson knew that when he chose it. But the way his calves ached reminded him that he was not used to hiking like this. Walking the trails, hunting game, sure. But the paths he walked were a little hilly at best, nothing like the constant incline he had to contend with. He was determined to not let it show, however, trudging along behind Cassandra as they made their way forward. Eventually they came to some sets of ladders and wooden walkways built into the mountains, and Bran could have sung with relief if it hadn’t meant he’d also have to climb up the ladders as well. But this was the path he had chosen, and so he sighed and grabbed onto the rungs, ascending as quickly as his fatigued legs would let him. At least his arms did help take some of the effort away, but it still wasn’t enough. They had a job to do still, however, and Branson was going to see it through. It’s what Cullen would have done, he reminded himself.

As they climbed, Cassandra informed them, “The tunnel should be just ahead, the path to the Temple lies just beyond it.”

“What manner of tunnel is this? A mine?” he could hear Solas ask behind him.

“Part of an old mining complex. These mountains are full of such paths,” Cassandra replied, not sounding one bit as winded as Branson felt. He wasn’t out of shape or lazy by any means, but that also didn’t mean he was up for a sudden mountain trek.

“And your missing soldiers are in there somewhere?” Varric inquired.

“Along with whatever has detained them,” Solas noted.

“We shall see soon enough,” Cassandra commented, either not wanting to think further on it or not caring either way. She seemed the type to tackle a challenge head on no matter what it is, so whatever enemy they would face in these tunnels, it seemed she was not intimidated by them.

There were a couple of groupings of demons they stumbled on through the tunnels, but nothing that they hadn’t handled already. Branson seemed to fall into a routine, backing away with Varric, opposite Solas, taking care with his aim so as not to hit Cassandra as she charged in. He had a little skill with a regular blade, as he had trained some with Cullen growing up, but he’d fallen out of practise and he felt more comfortable with a bow, regardless, considering he used it on a much more frequent basis. The complex that they moved through seemed an outbuilding of the Temple itself, its style similar to that of what he remembered the Temple being described as. But they had no time to rest and wonder as they pressed on.

When they finally exited the ruined tunnel, they practically stumbled upon the mentioned squad … or, rather, what was left of them. The sight of their mangled bodies turned his stomach, and he had to take deep, slow breaths so his stomach wouldn’t retch its contents onto the stone steps. He did his best to look away from the worst of the wounds as he heard Varric remark, “Surely this isn’t all of them …”

Cassandra appeared to do a cursory headcount on what bodies she could before she confirmed, “It is not. The others may be ahead.”

“But are they still alive?” Varric asked.

“That we shall see,” Cassandra simply replied, and with that they moved on, much to Branson’s relief.

Just further down the path, he began to feel a low thrum in his arm, similar to the ones he’d felt before they’d encountered rifts before, and he was instantly on alert. The others were talking behind him, but he paid them no mind as he trotted ahead, bow at the ready, ears straining to hear anything out of the norm. And sure enough, the sounds of shouting and clashing weapons reached him, had him grabbing and nocking an arrow in preparation for the fight ahead.

Cassandra was a whirlwind as she raced past him, shield and sword raised and ready for a fight. Varric pulled up and stopped short on Bran’s right side and Solas took up a position on his left, flinging spells as quickly as Bran and Varric could loose arrows. The demons died quickly enough, but he could tell that this was only a pause, a delay as the rift summoned more demons to fight. He tried to raise his arm to it but nothing happened, and so he pulled out another arrow and prepared for another wave.

The demons that appeared this time were tall and gangly, their small heads accentuated by large mouths that seemed to open impossibly wide. A chill ran down his back as he aimed and fired, trying to concentrate on one target at a time. So focused was he that he didn’t even see the other large demon pulling at the earth, using some sort of magic to open a portal of sorts that allowed it to slip downward and then pounce upon one of its enemies.

One that just so happened to be Bran.

Looking at it face to face, he could feel the cold sweat as it dripped down his temple. Every bad feeling he’d ever had, every fear, every doubt and uncertainty all pooled together in that moment as if he would be overwhelmed by the very emotion itself. He could only stare back at it as it stared at him before it straightened up and let loose a shrieking wail that felt like it echoed through his chest. Gritting his teeth, he consciously ordered his limbs to work, his body to stand up, his arms to nock an arrow and his eyes to aim. The tasks, though simple enough, were far more difficult to perform than under normal circumstances as it felt like he was swimming through mud. And after all those summers spent with Cullen frolicking after a heavy storm, he ought to know.

_Cullen._

A pang of heartache settled in his chest at the thought of his older brother, and right behind that was a surge of determination that had him loosing an arrow, and then another one. Cullen was brave and strong, and he wouldn’t let a simple demon stop him if he was on a mission. And therefore, neither would Branson. If he was the only man left in the Rutherford family now, save for his son, he would make sure to do well by their name. He had to, after all. Though he was only a hunter and had limited battle training, he had to. This was all he now knew.

As the last demon fell, Branson held up his marked hand, syncing the vibration in his arm with the vibration in the rift, and then yanking it closed, sealing it once and for all. The remnants of the scouts all staggered to their feet, in various stages of injury, but all alive. A tiny sliver of hope swelled in his chest, that all of this may indeed be worth it. Here he had proof of it. If he’d elected to take the direct route to the Temple, the scouts would have definitely died had he and his present company not intervened, but because Branson had chosen the mountain pass, they now lived. An unsettling realisation of the gravity of his actions and choices washed over him, but he did his best to ignore it for now. After all, there was still the Breach to contend with, and if he lived still after that, then … well, he supposed he could worry about that when the time came. If it came.

Solas came up to him as he stood there, flexing his hand, the odd sensation beginning to abate for the time being. “Sealed, as before,” the mage proclaimed. “You are becoming quite proficient at this.”

Varric, on the other hand, countered Solas’ optimism with a dose of realism as he mumbled, “Let’s hope it works on the big one.”

As they stood there, gathering themselves for a moment before they continued their journey, one of the scouts blew out a breath as if in a sigh of relief as she exclaimed, “Thank the Maker you finally arrived, Lady Cassandra. I don’t think we could have held out much longer.”

Nodding toward him, Cassandra redirected. “Thank our prisoner, Lieutenant. He insisted we come this way.”

“The prisoner? Then you …?”

With the attention on him once more, he immediately felt uncomfortable, and attempted to divert said attention as quickly as possible. “It was worth saving you, if we could.”

Cassandra stepped up once more, informing the Lieutenant, “The way into the valley behind us is clear for the moment. Go, while you still can.”

“At once,” she replied with a nod, turning to the rest of the scouts as they prepared their tactical retreat back down the mountain. “Quickly, let’s move!”

“The path ahead appears to be clear of demons as well,” Solas observed.

“Let’s hurry before that changes,” the Seeker commented, cleaning off her sword in the snow before sheathing it for the moment.

Branson could not have more readily agreed if he’d tried.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't posted this before now, I've been meaning to, things are just weird right now.

As they made their way down the hill that curved around the back of the remnants of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Varric just couldn’t help but continue to ask questions. “So, holes in the Fade don’t just accidentally happen, right?”

Branson had no answers and hoped no one would look to him for them. He was just a hunter by trade, educated just enough to be considered good enough and then he was off to ply his trade in order to support his family, whether that was his sisters or his son. His heart clenched painfully at the thought of his remaining family. If he survived this whole ordeal, he owed Mia a long, long letter. He’d have to tell her of everything that happened to him, of the strange mark on his hand and most especially the death of their brother. It was that bit of news that he least looked forward to passing on them, the one piece that he fervently tried to keep pushing to the back of his mind in order to keep his focus and his wits about him.

Solas, instead, seemed to have at least something to offer Varric and his questions. “If enough magic is brought to bear, it is possible.”

“But there are easier ways to make things explode,” the Dwarven rogue postulated aloud.

“That is true,” Solas conceded.

Before anyone could say or even think anything more on the subject, Cassandra interjected with, “We will consider how this happened once the immediate danger is past.”

Simple. Straightforward. Logical. It couldn’t be argued with, and Branson wasn’t in the mood for arguing as it was. Tamping down the grief that warred with the headache and the radiating pain in his arm, they rendered him silent for the moment as they gingerly entered what was left of the Temple. He sucked in a breath as he simply stood there a moment, surveying the extensive damage. Waves of molten rock reached upward, as if they froze as they splashed like waves on the sea. Burnt corpses littered the area, and Branson couldn’t contain the thought before it washed over him … _What if one of these is Cullen?_ He swallowed hard, pushing the burgeoning emotions aside for the moment as he followed the others through the ruins, cautiously making their way forward. They hadn’t seen nor heard any activity, but better to err on the side of caution. As it was, though, the only thing that felt off to Branson was the low-level thrum that seemed to match his arm the further they went. The Breach, he assumed, correctly it seemed as they rounded a corner and he had to work to contain a gasp as he saw it up close. His first glance seemed to pale in comparison to see such a thing up close. He had neither the knowledge nor the education for describing such a thing, but the dread that bubbled in his gut seemed to be all he needed himself. Beneath the Breach itself, there seemed to be another rift, but instead of being open and pouring demons into the surrounding area, it instead hosted a cluster of green crystals that almost constantly shifted, growing and then shrinking in size. He wasn’t sure what they were and what that meant, but he didn’t have long to ponder it as he heard a rather familiar Orlesian accent.

“You’re here! Thank the Maker,” Leliana exclaimed as she rushed to join them, her own company of scouts and soldiers following closely behind.

Cassandra immediately took charge, as it seemed she was often want to do by combination of training and instinct. “Leliana, have your men take up positions around the Temple.”

She nodded, motioning to her men as they filed around her, going where she directed before pausing and drawing their bows or swords as appropriate. Branson glanced up at the Breach and the rift beneath it once more, gulping as he fought off the headache that now pounded in his ears. He wasn’t sure if it was the mark causing it or if it was the result of being so close to the Breach, but he wanted nothing more than to sit down. He wasn’t going to get a chance for rest anytime soon, however, as Cassandra approached him.

“This is your chance to end this,” she told him. “Are you ready?”

Even though he was unsure, himself, Branson nodded and at least attempted an air of confidence. “I’m assuming you have a plan to get me up there?”

“No,” Solas replied. “This rift was the first, and it is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

“Then let’s find a way down. And be careful,” Cassandra cautioned.

Their group made their way down the winding path that took them down to the floor of the Temple near where the rift was positioned. Branson heard Varric hissing something to Cassandra about the strange red rock formations around them, but he didn’t pay that much attention to them. Between the pounding in his head that was starting to keep time with the pulsing in his arm, he had to channel his focus or else he would be completely lost. At hearing a booming, thundering voice surround them, a chill ran down his spine, as if he somehow recognised it even if he couldn’t recall where he had heard it before. A cold sweat gathered on his brow as the group descended further, and when their feet finally hit the stone floor, Branson startled to see the air in front of them practically vibrate, to move and undulate until what he could only assume was a hallucination appear before him.

A large figure made of shadow stood there, impossibly big and even darker, and in front of it was a woman whom Branson could only assume had been the Divine, judging by her robes and her age. And then … it was him. Or a vision of him, he assumed, suddenly barging in and demanding, “What’s going on here?” Even though it spoke with his voice, he had no memory of such a context as this, and he wondered for a moment if perhaps he wasn’t going mad.

The woman whom he assumed was Divine Justinia called out to him. “Run while you can! Warn them!”

Before anything could be done, however, the shadowy figure proclaimed, “We have an intruder.” Pointing a long, jagged finger towards him, it declared, “Kill him. Now.”

And with that, along with a wave of cold dread that swept over him, the hallucination seemed to abate, dissolving into thin air as sure as he stood there. Branson wondered if perhaps everyone was staring at him as it would have appeared he was simply looking at nothing this whole time, but as he surveyed the others, instead they seemed to be in various stages of shock and surprise. Had they seen what he had seen, too?

That appeared to be the case as Cassandra immediately began to question him once more. “You _were_ there! Who attacked? And the Divine, is she …? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

Bran could only shake his head. “I don’t remember.” While it did appear to be him in the vision, he had no memory of it aside from a creeping dread, and that was only a feeling, nothing to actually go off of.

Solas at least offered some sort of explanation. “Echoes of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place.” If that was true, then perhaps what they had seen was real, then, in a sense. Branson wondered what else might be held here, what other visions might reveal, but that would likely mean keeping the rift there, and he was rather keen on closing it no matter what small benefit there might be to keeping it open for a little while longer. Turning back to the group, Solas informed them, his voice a little louder so it could carry to the scouts and soldiers surrounding the area, “This rift is not sealed, but it is closed … albeit temporarily. I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

Branson gulped as Cassandra declared, “That means demons. Stand ready!” Soldiers moved in accordance, drawing their swords as the archers nocked their arrows and prepared to fire upon anything that might come out of the rift before them. Once it seemed like everyone was in position and as ready as they could be, Cassandra nodded to him and drew her own sword, standing by his side. Raising his hand, the mark on his hand connected to the rift, and once the vibration seemed to match, he pushed up instead of pulling back, opening it once more from whoever or whatever had clumsily closed it.

And, just as predicted, their actions did not go unnoticed.

His eyes must have been the size of saucers to see the giant demon materialise in front of them. For an archer, he was far too close to it, and Cassandra understood as she immediately moved to cover his tactical retreat to higher ground. It seemed to shrug off the arrows that had started to pelt it, but Branson took a moment to aim true, and he noticed the demon’s reaction. It wasn’t quite a stumble, more like a pause, but that was all he needed to see. Despite its intimidating size, it wasn’t invulnerable, they just had to wear it down.

Of course, wearing down a demon of such size and strength was much easier said than done. More than once he was caught with its lightning whips, but thanks to the barrier that Solas had given him, he was able to shrug off the blows and simply move his position. Every once in a while, the demon gained strength from the rift itself, and so Branson’d had to sneak over and reconnect with the rift, stripping the demon’s defences little by little. This wasn’t a mere sprint like most of the fights he’d encountered before. No, this was a marathon of epic proportions, and everyone in the Temple knew it. And they weren’t fighting for merely themselves. No, this fight was for all of Thedas, for if they failed and the Breach remained open, it would consume the world. They supported each other, then, the archers and Solas providing cover fire for the soldiers who would run in and slash at the demon, running back out of its range before it could swipe at them. Not all were successful, but they kept on nonetheless. Solas in particular tossed Branson a few health potions, somehow sensing when the hunter was starting to flag and needing a second wind. The potions themselves were no substitute for actual healing, but they would get him through and that was all that mattered. Better to save mana for barriers and offense for the time being.

Finally, after what felt like hours – with an obstructed view of the sky underneath the Breach, it was impossible to tell how much time they’d spent there – the demon dropped to its knees for the last time, and Cassandra shouted at him, “Now! Do it!”

Branson needed no further direction as he immediately held up his marked hand, connecting it to the rift. Blood dripped down his face from a shallow wound he’d taken from a smaller demon’s claw, but it was minor and insignificant. He concentrated on the large rift above him with everything he had, his heart and his head and his arm all pounding in unison as he worked to sync them both so they could be sealed. He held on, his vision blurring in and out as they got closer and closer, and just before he moved to close the rift, he could have sworn he saw his brother out of the corner of his eye. With how his heart beat painfully off-rhythm in his chest, he supposed he wouldn’t be surprised if it was him, here to help him in his journey to the Maker. For the first time, it hit him how it was entirely possible he wouldn’t survive this, that he wasn’t meant to survive it, and while before that might have worried him, might have filled his head with thoughts of home, of his sisters and his son, instead he felt only peace. _Wait for me, Cullen. I’m coming._

And then he yanked back his arm, sealing the rift as darkness consumed him and he knew no more.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, uh, yeah. it's been a while, hasn't it? sorry. 2020 was just ... insane for me. my muse just went completely out the window and it's been a struggle just to write what i have in the meantime. but, i'm finally going back through and working on my older wip fics because i have others i really want to get to writing, too, but i refuse to begin posting anything more than one-shots and updates for now.
> 
> this is sliiiiightly longer than previous chapters, and it's cullen's pov, so i hope that makes up for it. :)

For the barest moment, as Cullen stood there in the Temple, his heart - and indeed, time itself - seemed to stop. It was … it was impossible, what he was seeing. Surely the Breach had finally driven him mad. No, it wasn’t, it couldn’t be his younger brother standing there, holding up his hand as a mysterious mark connected him to the large rift that seemed to be the epicentre. Cassandra had reported a prisoner, but …

The bubble of time was burst as the marked hand was suddenly yanked backwards, pulling the rift closed like a needle pulls thread through cloth. A corresponding shock wave thundered through the remnants of the of ruined Temple, knocking everyone off their feet as the hole in the Fade was sealed. As far away as he was, even Cullen fell backwards, rock and brick slamming into his back and taking the wind out of him. His head swirling, he struggled to take in a breath, consciously ordering muscles to begin working. Whether they wanted to or not was of no consequence. Cullen was almost damn sure that had been Branson he’d seen, and he both ached and dreaded to confirm that.

Struggling to his feet, his body pained by aches not entirely borne of battle, he pushed through the stiffness and the arcs of pain, focusing his eyes on one point and one point alone as he stumbled to the middle of the ruins. Some were beginning to stir, others laid still, but he ignored them for now, heart pounding fiercely in his chest as he came closer to this prisoner that Cassandra had said she’d detained and subsequently taken to attempt to seal the Breach.

His vision blurred with tears as he slumped to his knees, the truth confirmed. It was Branson. Somehow, impossibly, it was, he would have recognised his brother anywhere. His blond hair was darker than Cullen’s, grown out a little longer, and his stubble was more maintained than his own, but the familial resemblance was undeniable in their shared jawline and what Cullen well knew was a piercing gaze. He hadn’t seen him in years - Maker, was it close to ten? - but he damn well knew his own brother when he saw him. And now, to see him like this, sprawled on the ground, unnaturally pale … he leaned over, pressing his ear against his chest, holding his breath until … there. It seemed a bit faint through layers of clothes, but it was definitely there, his heart beating, his lungs pulling shallow breaths. He was alive and Cullen blinked away the forming tears of relief. It was obvious that, alive though he was, he was not well. He needed help, and he needed it now.

Gathering his brother into his arms, He stood to see Cassandra also rising to her feet, a guilty and knowing look on her face as she saw him. He sent her a look of his own, hardened anger clear to see, the unspoken statement echoing off the space between them. We will talk about this later.

There was a healing tent that had been set up just outside, but that was for battle wounds, for small injuries, not for something potentially quite serious and life threatening. Instead, Cullen mounted a horse with Branson in his arms, directing it out of the ruins and into the hills that surrounded Haven, angling back toward the village and to a fully competent healer that would be able to assess and treat him … if it wasn’t too late already. Cullen’s heart clenched in his chest as he rode, offering a silent prayer to the Maker as the horse’s hooves crunched rhythmically in the snow. He pushed all other thoughts out of the way as he concentrated wholly on getting back to Haven as quickly as possible, the wind against his face as numb as his mind. He could think them all and give them due process in time, but for now, Branson needed help and he needed to get him to help as soon as possible. He didn’t have time to stop and think about what had happened, about what he’d seen. He just had to ride.

And ride he did, pushing his horse through barely visible trails, keeping a sharp eye out for straggling demons, though he saw none. Whoever had come through the valley, they had made sure to clear it, that or the closing of the final rift did something that dispersed whatever remaining demons may have been left. Cullen wasn’t about to question his good fortune, as it meant there was no delay from the time he mounted at the Temple of Sacred Ashes and when he finally pulled to a halt just outside the village.

Abandoning the animal at the gates, he carried his brother up and into the village itself, seeking the healer that he knew was within. Branson wasn’t exactly light, but Cullen barely felt the weight as he crossed the snow-covered paths and ascended the flights of stairs leading to the hut where he well knew he would find help. Kicking at the door, he yelled, “Adan! I have need of you!”

The grumpy healer grumbled and muttered under his breath as he opened the door, but seeing Cullen standing there, limp and pale body carried in his arms, he face drew a solemn frown and he ushered them inside. “Over there, lay him on the cot. What happened?”

What happened? Now there was the real question. What had happened? He had been fighting alongside his fellow soldiers, fending off waves after waves of demons when word came, passed down through various scouts, direct from Cassandra herself. This prisoner, whoever he was, that she had found had awoken, and she was escorting him to the Temple in the hopes to close the Breach. That was it, that was all he’d been told, to just keep fighting to allow them the chance to get inside. There had been no mention of who it was she was bringing, and at the time he’d brushed it aside, figuring it unimportant. He thought very differently about it now, however. Had she known? She had to have known, there was no way she couldn’t. Branson would have told her who he was, he would have had no reason to conceal his identity. Besides that, there was the physical similarities that were simply impossible to miss for long. How could she have not told him? How could she think this would stay secret for long?

“Well?” Adan pressed, soaking a rag in herb-soaked water before bathing Branson’s brow, and Cullen realised he’d never answered the question.

“I-I’m not entirely certain,” he replied. “He sealed the large rift at the Temple and collapsed after the shock wave.”

“Ah, so this is the prisoner?”

Cullen’s jaw clenched and his eyes flashed. “He is my brother.”

Adan seemed surprised, his eyebrows lifting as he mused. “Well, that’s a bit unexpected now isn’t it?”

“You’re telling me,” Cullen seethed, the anger returning tenfold. No, there was no plausible way Cassandra hadn’t known his identity, and why she’d concealed it from Cullen, he knew not. He had half a mind to jump back on his horse and ride back to the Temple, to seek her out and give her a piece of his mind right then and there, but Branson groaned and suddenly all of Cullen’s attention was on him once more. “How … how is he?” he asked, his voice much quieter, much more reserved, as if he didn’t quite want to ask the question but couldn’t help himself.

“Well, his pulse is weak, he’s running a fever, and I can’t seem to rouse him just yet. Though I don’t see anything more than superficial wounds, I can’t rule out anything internal just yet.” Glancing back at Cullen, he assured, “I will personally oversee his care, that I assure you.”

Cullen nodded and swallowed hard, knowing well what that meant. Stay out of my way and let me work. And so, loathe as he was to do so, he left the healer’s little hut, though he stopped short once outside the door. Where did he go? What did he do? The fighting was over with for now, the rest of the soldiers were being rounded up and marched back to Haven to rest and recover. Even if he did make it back to the Temple before the majority departed, it would only be to make the journey back to the village once more.

So, the question then hit him. What did he do? For the moment, he did the only thing a concerned sibling could do: he paced and he waited.

As time wore on, the forces that had been in the Temple and scattered elsewhere in the valley began to trickle in. Those who were wounded were put in a newly-erected tent so that they could be tended to. Soldiers stripped themselves of their armour and sought the comfort of warm cider or cold beer in the tavern. The ones who hadn’t made it were lined up in an orderly fashion to be accounted for before they were put on a pyre. The Elven apostate reappeared, nodding to Cullen before ducking into Adan’s hut, and though he watched him closely, he saw no ill intent as he simply assisted the healer. And still he waited, pacing a trail through the snow in front of the door, soon hitting dirt as he worried a clear track, outwardly marking the concern he felt within. He felt adrift, out of focus, unable to direct any thought, not between his brother potentially dying and a searing headache that was beginning to form behind his eyes and spread throughout his skull. Breathing deeply through his nose, he closed his eyes and hung his head for a moment, attempting to centre himself through the incoming dizzy spell. He swayed for a bare moment before he reached out and steadied himself against the cold wood of the building, his fingers like ice even with his gloves.

He barely heard the crunch of footsteps in the snow until it was right behind him, Cassandra’s voice speaking his name, and he turned to regard her, fist clenched to help him focus, to fight through headache. The way she held her frame and clasped her hands in front of her, she looked decidedly uncomfortable, but even still she fixed him with a determined gaze. “I think we need to have a talk.”

All at once, all the fear and worry that had burrowed itself into his body was immediately rooted out and replaced with a burning anger and his mind completely refocused on a new target, a new task. Yes. A talk. Though he knew not what she could say to spare his feelings or assuage what he had gone through at the Temple, indeed was still going through! He spared one last glance through the window, watching Adan and the apostate as they worked on his brother, before he pushed himself off the wall and nodded. “I think that would be wise,” he replied, his words measured and precise but still clipped, hinting at the underlying turmoil within him. He’d prayed to the Maker for patience before, but … he wasn’t sure that would quite help him now.

Cullen followed wordlessly behind Cassandra, fists clenched and jaw set as he barely realised she was leading him into the Chantry, away from prying eyes and curious ears. Later he would be thankful that she took the time to have this discussion in private instead of in the middle of Haven, but at the moment he could think of little else other than what he wanted to say to her … things that, though he felt them strongly, were not exactly flattering. He knew well that he would have to work to restrain himself as there were bigger things to worry about and work that would need to be done, but … with Branson the centre of his concerns, it was more and more difficult to keep that in mind with each passing minute.

Cassandra ushered them into a quiet room at the back of the Chantry, shutting the door behind her as Cullen continued a nervous pace in the middle of the room. As soon as the latch pulled shut, he immediately was on her. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew that he was my brother.” It was a statement, not a question.

Taking a deep breath, she nodded, though clarified, “Not at first. Not until after he woke up and I had a chance to … talk with him.”

“Talk? What do you mean, talk? Did you interrogate my brother?” Cullen asked, his voice dangerous and low, a seething anger flickering at the edges of his tone.

To her credit, she stood her ground and didn’t even flinch, despite the growl in his voice. “I asked him questions, it was not a full interrogation, not like you are thinking.”

But Cullen’s hackles were already raised and he wasn’t about to be completely talked down by that one bit of information. “And you didn’t think to tell me this? To tell me that my brother was here, that he was your prisoner that you found falling out of a rift, the one that had a magical mark on his hand? You didn’t think that the least bit relevant to share with me?”

She steeled herself as if she’d been preparing for this during the whole journey back to Haven, and perhaps she had. “I did not want you distracted as you fought off the demons. The last thing I needed was for you to lose focus and get hurt - or worse - as you worried about your brother. If we are to succeed, we need people like you. I could not afford to lose you, especially not now.”

Somewhere, back in the recesses of his mind, Cullen’s logic accepted this. It had been a calculated decision on her part, negating any unnecessary risk. For someone in his position, he could understand that. However, that logical side of him had been completely pushed to the side and disregarded for the moment, his mind unable to forget that it was Branson, his own brother who lay, unconscious and feverish and potentially dying, and that part of him didn’t want to hear what sounded like flimsy excuses. “I should have known. I should have been told,” he shot at her.

“I am sorry,” she replied. “I did what I thought was right in the moment. I did not want to see either of you hurt.”

“But he is hurt. He could be dying for all I know! I … I should have been there …” He had to pause and breathe deeply for a moment as it felt as though his skull was being split in two, the pressure mounting as he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, as if that would somehow stave off the worst of it. Whether it actually helped or not, he couldn’t quite say, but it didn’t hurt and it seemed better than doing nothing.

A hand settled on his shoulder, Cassandra’s voice ringing gently in his ear as she directed him. “Come, sit down.”

Cullen shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re wavering on your feet, you need to sit,” the Seeker told him, and in a tone that brokered no argument, so he didn’t. Instead, he allowed her to lead him to a nearby chair. “Are the headaches getting worse?”

“Not worse, just … the same,” he admitted.

She hummed noncommittally before she said, “I … do have something else to confess.”

Sighing heavily, he gestured for her to continue, suddenly too weary for words at the moment.

“Your brother believes you to be dead.”

At that, his head snapped up to meet her steady gaze. “And why does he think that?”

“When I talked to him, before I knew who he was, I told him that the Conclave had been destroyed. He said that he had come to see his brother and, with my news, he took it to mean you also perished in the blast.”

Cullen let out a long, steady breath through his nose as he attempted to reign back in some measure of control. “Why didn’t you tell him I was alive?”

“Because what if I did and you died in the fighting? Why get his hopes up only to dash them? If you had … would it not have been better for him to believe that all along?”

Sitting back into the chair, Cullen wordlessly admitted defeat, the anger burning away until only the glowing embers of despair remained. “I just … what do I do if he doesn’t make it?”

Bending over to look him square in the eye, Cassandra told him, “You fight on. You fight for him and everyone like him that we’ve lost. You have to, or else it will consume you. I … this I know well.”

Cassandra paused a moment before opening her mouth once again, but before she had a chance to, there was a knock at the door. They both looked up and asked in unison, “Who is it?”

“It is I, Solas,” came the response.

“Come in,” Cassandra beckoned, straightening as the door opened to reveal the Elven apostate that had begun to tend to Branson after his return from the Temple, and Cullen’s heart suddenly clenched in his chest at his arrival and the news he might bring.

But whatever the news, good or bad, he would know it. “What of Branson?”

“I believe he will live,” the Elf assured them. “Properly closing the large rift that was connected to the Breach drained him a good deal. He still has a fever and hasn’t woken, but he is stable. Unfortunately,” his gaze turned to Cassandra, “it seems the Breach was not sealed as I’d hoped it would. It is no longer expanding, but as you could see, it’s still there. And considering how badly it drained your prisoner, we will need to come up with another plan to seal it.”

“He is not a prisoner,” Cullen growled.

The apostate raised an eyebrow at that, but Cassandra confirmed. “It is true, Branson Rutherford is not a prisoner any longer, and he will not be treated as such. Tell me,” she inquired, “where is he now?”

“Adan has transferred him to a private cabin to recover.”

“Can I see him?” Cullen asked, the first and only question on his mind.

He nodded. “Of course. I think Adan would welcome an extra pair of eyes to watch over him as he rests.”

And with that, Cullen was led out of the Chantry and down through Haven, skirting along the outside of the village until they arrived at a small cabin no bigger than a room. Adan was still in there, jotting down some notes on a parchment, and he looked up to see them enter. “Ah, wondered when you’d be by. There’s been little change since you left him in my care, but after a thorough examination, we think he’ll pull through fine. I assume you’ll be staying with him a while?” When Cullen nodded in confirmation, he exclaimed, “Good, I have other patients I’ll need to tend to.”

The healer walked past them briskly with nary another word, and the apostate that had escorted him simply bowed his head slightly as he took his own leave, closing the door behind him.

Just like that, he was alone with Branson, and for a few minutes he simply stood there, unsure of what to do. Bran still looked deathly pale, but he could see the sheen of sweat on his face, and he now moved slightly as he slept on, unaware of the machinations of the world around him. In that moment, he was no longer the man Cullen knew him to be, but was instead the small boy from his youth, as if the years that had passed had not touched him. Somehow he looked smaller, frailer, and the sight almost scared Cullen so badly as to almost turn around and rush out the door, if only to banish the image from his sight.

Almost. His sense of duty ran deep, and instead he shed his cloak and his armour, gathering a nearby bowl of cooled herbal water and soaking a rag in it. Pulling a chair up next to the bed, he then wiped away the sweat, doing what he could to ease his brother through the worst of it. At the action, Bran moaned softly, turning his head toward the cool, wet cloth. Cullen shushed him, and though he wasn’t sure if he could hear him, he assured him with, “It’s alright, it’s me. It’s Cullen. I’m here. And I’m going to take care of you.” He squeezed his hand to reinforce it, to solidify the foundation of the older brother, of the duty and responsibility that came with it.

And maybe it was just him being hopeful, but he could have swore he felt the barest squeeze back.


End file.
